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POEMS 



C. P. s. 


Copyrighted, 1911, Mrs. Clara P. Swift 

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THE WOODS 


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Deep in the woods where the pool lies clear 
and cool 

You will hear the stillness dropping all the 
day; 

Up from sod and dry leaf rising, odors fra¬ 
grant, dank, reviving— 

Silence, Silence, Silence, 
Everywhere. 

Deep in the woods where the pool lies clear 
and cool 

And the sunshine flickers through the 
branches overhead, - 

You will hear the stillness dropping, drop¬ 
ping, dropping all the day— 

Silence, Silence, Silence, 
Everywhere. 

Around the moss-grown stones and gray, 
where the shallow waters lie, 

You will hear the stillness dropping all the 
day; 

Bow thy soul, O Heart, and listen to the 
message earth is giving— 

Silence, Silence, Silence 
Everywhere. 


3 


THE QUAIL 


Did you ever hear the quail, 

On a warm October day, 

Calling down the meadow to her mate, 
Bob White! 

With the fields so sweet and brown, 

And the mellow air of autumn 
Falling round her as she’s calling 
Bob White! 

It would make your heart-strings quiver 
Just to hear the little rover 
Seeking notice, shunning favor— 

Bob White! 

Near and far her liquid notes are 
Soft and wild and all endearing, 

Modest, tender, shy, alluring— 

Bob White! 

Oh, did you ever hear the quail, 

On a warm October day, 

Calling down the meadow to her mate, 
And the waters flowing 
Just beyond the heather! 


4 




LIFE 

Against the wall the peach tree leaned, 
Its starlike flowers set as gems 
On branch of leafless brown 
And spreading petals to the sun 
As if to beg the God above 
To listen to its song of love. 

In innocence and confidence 
It lifted bosom to be blest. 

A sudden gust of wind and rain, 
Blurred landscape, passed— 

And not a bloom remained, alas! 


THE YELLOW JASMINE 

Dangling over trunk and branch of tree 
Along the old plank road down Georgia way 
The yellow jasmine blooms, throws tendril 
high 

Amid the hanging moss, and lowering face 
All sweet with fragrance to the heart of 
Cherokee. 

Its golden gleam the very joy of by-lane and 
of wood, 

Tangled with the lazy odor of the pine 
And call of mocking bird. 


5 


THE TWO SISTERS 

“Oft in the stilly night , 

Ere slumber s chain hath hound me, 

Fond memory brings the light 
Of other days around me.” 

No longer young, yet holding court, 

They stand, in image beautiful. 

The taller of the two, with eyes as solemn, 
Cold and black as those of Judith, 

When behind Holofernes’ seat she passed 
the wine. 

With pallor strange the face was met, 

A mask, the light of joy forever quenched 
By some weird turn of Providence 
To her alone made known. 

Above, in turban’s fold of deepest red, a 
gold aigrette, 

With fine, innumerable diamonds set; 

On neck and bosom, row on row, 

The same rare gems in splendor shone, 
While fall of satin, palest green, 

Held waist and stomacher, 

And fell in flounces to the floor 
(As was the fashion of that day), 

Each wrought in heavy ’broidery 
Of leaf and bud and flower. 

To childish eyes this grotesque charm 
Of “death in life,’’ not understood 
Yet grappled with in fear and love, 

Leaves memory where ashes gray 
Shows still the kindling of a flame. 


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The other, of no less charm and grace, 

Of slighter build, with face as rare 
As cameo carving and as fair 
With that soft wrinkle born of age, 

Stands in a robe of ebon lace, 

Caught at the breast with emerald clasp; 
While ’gainst the smooth bandeaux of hair, 
As black as plumage drooping there, 
Another shone and held the heart 
In glint of green and gold. 

To Her I lift the cup and drain. 

The sweetest friendship ever known 
Through youth and after years. 


A BUNCH OF VIOLETS 
To Amelia 

Pale purple gleams amid the lace, 

Upheld by deeper shade beneath, 

With touches here and there of satin and of 
leaf. 

Serene it lies upon thy breast, 

A fitting place whereon to rest, 

As tranquil and as fair. 

To thee belongs this royal flower. 

As fragrant, centered, subtly sweet 
As thine own nature, 

For thee and thee alone doth bloom 
This flower of earth and heaven born. 


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AS I PASSED BY 


Between the meadow and the corn 
The river ran, a narrow stream, 

With banks all ragged, brown and warm. 
The pebbles showed on either side, 

And underneath the broken ledge 
Where waters darkened at the edge— 
The hiding place of trout. 

Back on the hill the orchard lay, 

A flush of rose against the gray 
Of clouded sky and leaves 
That showed upon the boughs 
Like clustered emeralds, 

While far beyond, the mountains blue 
Brought out the miniature anew. 

The alder lay against the stream, 

A fair cascade of living green, 

And mirrored, leaf for leaf; 

While through the interlacing boughs 
Of mistlike growth the waters gleamed 
As pure and clear as that which flowed 
From out the Crystal Sea. 


9 


THE BIRTH OF THE STORM 


Parched and brown and bare 
The Earth lay, looking up to Heaven 
With haggard eyes, no mercy here or there. 
The days had lengthened into weeks 
And dragged themselves on bended knees 
To Heaven’s gate. 

Dull, sullen roar swept up the vale, 

The moaning of the coming gale, 

Like some wild creature caught in pain, 
Then, sighing, fell to naught. 

From sudden cloud, like beat of angels’ 
wings, 

The raindrops splashed upon the bosom of 
the Earth; 

Then drought again and burning heat 
And deadening sense of unrelief— 

Despair, despair, despair. 

When in wild fury it broke loose, 

The cyclone, burst of wind and rain, 

It swept the plain as hoof on hoof, 

It ploughed the deep and dug the main, 

A twisting, groaning, lashing storm, 

Its birthpang travail o’er. 

As every sorrow borne aright 
Brings fruitage, so Earth renewed 
Her vows of love and gratitude 
And blossomed into life anew. 


10 


A PORTRAIT 


Uplifted chin and throat as delicately 
Molded as column in old ivory, 

Melting into breast and shoulder 
In noble lines— 

A fitting base for face above, 

Where brow looks up to meet the sweep of 
gold; 

An eye as looking out on life in mockery, 
With touch of Oriental turn at corner, 

A glance where mystery, born of silence, 
dwells; 

Nostril at slightest warning meeting foe 
with quiver, 

Belied by sweetness of the mouth beneath. 
And in the hollow of the bosom, 
Translucent pearl in drift of lace. 


11 


FROM NAZARETH TO BETHLEHEM 


The moon lay low behind the hills, 

The hoar frost on the ground, 

Chill was the dawn which broke the spell 
Of that night’s journeying. 

Jesu, Saviour! 

The cedars lengthened shadows cast, 

The road wound white and still. 

No sound was heard save beat of hoof 
On that night’s journeying. 

Jesu, Saviour! 

The lights of Nazareth gleamed afar 
To those poor wanderers, 

No hand to guide but His alone 
Through that night’s journeying. 

Jesu, Saviour! 

The darkness of those bitter hours 
On Mary’s heart pressed sore, 

Her cheek and brow with pallor went 
In that night’s journeying. 

Jesu, Saviour! 

To meet at last that hostelry 
So dreary, cold and bare, 

This, then, the end of all her dreams 
And that night’s journeying. 

Jesu, Saviour! 


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The call of rude and careless men 
To whip across her breast, 

The lantern’s flare, the hurrying feet, 
End that night’s journeying. 

Jesu, Saviour! 


GETHSEMANE 

Oh, Garden of Gethsemane! 

Thy shadows haunt me sore. 

Alone, I stand amid thy shade 
Of olive tree and cedar growth. 

No gleam of light save one 
And that of gnarled pomegranate tree, 
Where moon, athwart its golden fruit 
And clustered jewels, red as blood, 

Strikes shaftlike through the gloom— 

IIow strange that gleam of light! 

How dark the night! How dense the shade 
Ah! Father! God! I pray 
Let me not faint in this, my day. 

The lonely chill of early dawn 
Beats back my soul in fear. 

Encompass me, O Mighty God, 

Till break of day be here. 


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AGNUS DEI 


On this pale emblem of my Lord, 

In pearl and silver crucifix, 

I gaze with an adoring love. 

Oh, Trembling Heart. Be still! 

They gave Thee vinegar and gall. 

They scourged Thee with the thong, 
They struck with palm Thy Blessed Face. 
Oh, Patient Heart. Be still! 

They put on Thee the scarlet robe, 

They pierced Thy side with spear, 

They mocked Thee with the cruel word. 
Oh, Sighing Heart. Be still! 

On Thy dear head a crown of thorns, 

A reed in Thy right hand, 

They stripped Thee of Thy dignity. 

Oh, Waiting Heart. Be still! 

And what have we to offer Thee 
For all Thy pains and woe? 

The homage of a contrite heart, 

A broken spirit, Lord? 


15 


A SONG 


Beyond the hedge of oleander 
Dwells my sweetheart, Esmeralda. 

Soft of hand and light of foot, 

With an eye that’s my undoing. 

“Why,” she says, “why, what you come 
for?” 

Then she gathers oleander, 

Tucks it in her bosom’s border, 

Eyebrows lifted, through her lashes 
Mischief gleaming—Esmeralda’s won me! 

Esmeralda’s won me! 

Esmeralda’s won me! 

Oleander, orange blossom, 

Roses in the garden blowing— 
Esmeralda’s won me! 

Beyond the hedge of oleander, 

On the other side, sea of turquoise, 
Glinting, sparkling, cedars guarding shore. 
Esmeralda, Heart of Blossom, 

Meets me at the door. 

“Why,” she says, “why, what you come 
‘ for?” 


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Mischief reefing in her eye, 

Teeth of pearl and breath of milk, 
’Twixt the thread of scarlet lip— 
Esmeralda’s won me! 

Esmeralda’s won me! 
Esmeralda’s won me! 
Oleander, orange blossom, 
Roses in the garden blowing— 
Esmeralda’s won me! 


17 


AND “WATCH THE SHIPS GO BY” 


To hate where one should love, 

To lash oneself against the mast 
Of pride and prejudice and caste, 

And watch the ships go by— 

The ships that sail for other ports, 
Where Love holds revelry! 

To doubt where one should trust, 

To meet with bitterness and smart 
The anger of an outraged heart, 

And watch the ships go by— 

The ships that sail for other ports 
Where Peace holds revelry! 

To fear and brood and beat the brain 
Against a fate which seems unkind, 

To count the pulses of one’s pain, 

And watch the ships go by— 

The ships that sail for other ports 
Where Joy holds revelry! 

O God, in mercy harbor me, 

From mine own self O set me free, 

And make mine eyes see more and more 
That other shore, that other shore. 


18 


IN THE DAYS OF LONG AGO 

On the Plantation 

Oh, how well do I remember 
In the days of long ago, 

When the lovely Southern ladies 
Sat in lace and furbelow. 

Fairer picture never met one, 

Flounced in silk from belt to toe. 
Priceless lace that hung like cobwebs 
From the neck and sleeve below. 

Careless as the rose which nestled 
In their bodice or their waist. 

With a languid, laughing beauty 
And a cool, beloitering grace. 

Talk of high-born beauties, darling, 
Never such as these set pace, 

Daring man alike and master, 

With a courage born of race. 

Down upon the old plantation, 

Where the negro quarters met, 
There you’d hear the banjo strumming 
And the clink of castanet. 


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Sitting on the broad veranda 

Where the rose and jasmine blew, 
“Missy’s” maid to run for ’kerchief 
Or to worship “Missy’s” shoe. 

Refrain 

Oh, those days of long ago, 

Oh, those days of long ago. 

Let me close my eyes and listen 
To the song of long ago, 

When the lovely Southern ladies 
Sat in lace and furbelow. 


) 


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IN THE DAYS OF LONG AGO 
In Town 

Hallway wide and rooms as airy 
As a Roman colonnade, 

Leading out to open courtyard 

Paved with brick, where fig trees shade. 

And the pride of India blossoms, 

Sunshine sleeping on their boughs, 

With magnolia standing stately, 

Lifting flowers mid gleaming leaves. 

Leaning over garden gate. 

Cloth of gold and rose La Marque, 

And in the shadow of the wall 
Cape jasmine and japonica. 

Maids in bright bandannas, calling. 
Mammy’s pickaninnies sprawling, 

Darkies with their silver salvers 
And the scent of roses round the do’. 

On balcony, like pigeons flocking, 

Beaux and beauties laughing, lolling, 
Perfume of sweet frangipanni 
And the swish of skirt along the floor. 


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In high ceremony, standing back of 
Madam’s chair, 

Madam’s bodyguard and servant. 

Waving fan of peacock feathers 
With a slow, majestic air. 

Refrain 

Oh, those days of long ago, 

Oh, those days of long ago! 

Let me close my eyes and listen 
To the song of long ago. 

When the lovely Southern ladies 
Sat in lace and furbelow. 


22 


EUGENIE 

Thy beauty, pride and splendor 
Stands at the threshold of the past 
A sceptered ghost. 

Back through the shadows shines thy face 
A mask of loveliness. 

The pageant passes, but no form 
More peerless comes or goes. 

Imperious, daring, lithe of spirit 
As the sprung bow of the archer, 

Swept into place from out the maelstrom 
Of the world—by every right of nature 
As by man’s decree, a Queen, 

Wearing in silent dignity the darkened hours 
of life. 

Let memory weave the romance of thy day 
And France salute! 

No fairer woman ever held her honor 
Or graced her throne. 


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WHITE JAPONICA 


Lie close, O flower! 

In grave, cold sweetness mid thy glossy 
leaves, 

Thy waxen whiteness folded o’er. 
Incomparably pure, 

And resting like the dove whereof we read 
In Holy Script, 

Against the background of the past. 

In thee we read of beauties dead and gone, 
Of rout and ball, 

The blur of tarleton and of silk, 

Thyself secure, the one rare blossom, 
Dignifying all. 


A BUNCH OF DAFFODILS 

I sat, a beggar by the way, 

Not even lifting hands to pray, 

So burdened I in soul. 

A sweet and gracious presence met 
My brooding heart and placed 

Within my palm a handful of her gold. 

I laughed and, rising, made my way. 

What need to pray 

When God His bounty so bestows ? 


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A TRIBUTE 


The topaz star upon that breast 
(Tumultuous, even when at rest) 

Sends forth a thousand rays. 

Immeshed in gossamer it lies, 

A radiant, blazing sacrifice 
To thy dark beauty, haughty soul! 

Whose eyes with daring challenge one. 
Such spirit in the day of old 
Held Rome and Roman conqueror bold, 
And such have carved their way to fame 
And built the altars of the slain. 

Thy birthright, pride—“A law unto thy¬ 
self.” 


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THE DEAR OLD LANE 


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Oh, the dear old lane 
At the foot of the mountain, 
Where oft in my childhood 
I wandered with you 
To call home the cattle 
At evening’s first warning— 

Bring it back to me now 
While I tell it to you, 

Bring it back to me now 
While I dream it is true. 

How sweet to the senses 
The scent of the pine was, 

As slowly we went 
Through the gathering gloom, 

And the soft thud of feet 
As they came down the pathway— 
Bring it back to me now 
While I tell it to you, 

Bring it back to me now 
„ While I dream it is true. 


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The tinkle of bells 

Through the dusk all so tender, 

Was the sweetest e’er heard; 

But sweeter than all 

Was the lineabell’s blossom, 

And back in the forest 

The whip-o’-will’s call— 

Bring it back to me now 
While I tell it to you, 
Bring it back to me now 
While I dream it is true. 

And do you remember 
The birch white and slender, 
That seemed to us then 
Like the finger of God! 

And the fast-falling twilight, 
With fragrance ascending 
From brake and from fern— 
Bring it back to me now 
While I tell it to you, 
Bring it back to me now 
While I dream it is true. 


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19. Taps. 



TAPS 

No more, O bugle, shalt thou call 

Him to his rest. 

The night has come, he is not here to 
answer. 

He lies in slumber cold, from which there is 
no waking 

Save in that land where there is endless day— 

His duty done. 

That last long note which falls into the 
future 

Is but the call to all eternity. 

Sleep, noble heart! 

Thy patient spirit shall fresh vintage take 

To scale the heights and reach at last thy 
heaven 

Is not a task so oft to mortal given. 


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AN ISLAND IN THE SEA 


Oh, lovely island of the sea. 

Come back in memory to me, 

When ’gainst the fretwork of the sky 
The orange and the blossom lie, 

A tangled mass of loveliness 
Amid their shining leaves, 

And lime tree with its pale green globes 
Leans forth to meet thine breast. 

Where oleander, flush of dawn, 

Guards land and yields its rare perfume, 
Come back, in memory, to me. 

O road, down-leading to the sea, 

From garden walk and balcony, 

Past palm and spikelike bayonet, 

In wilderness of thicket met, 

No fairer isle in God’s dear seas; 

A jewel, marvelously set 
In waters blue as azurite, 

Where lifting high in proud content 
Its crown of beauty to the heat 
The red poinsettia spreads its flame, 

And columned tall, the cocoa palm 
Rears mane, a royal sign. 

Oh, lovely island of the sea, 

Come back in memory thus to me. 


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MORN 


Behind the hills the light of day is breaking. 
The rift in the curtain of the night 
So full of solemn loneliness, 

Grows wider and more wide. 

Back, back the shadows roll 
While over earth the breath of life comes 
lapping. 

Around the heart of every leaf and flower 
The chill of early dawn is creeping. 

The mist ascends, as incense from the censer, 
And over all the gathering hand of God. 
Blare, O ye trumpets of the morn, 

Cast up the highway, that the sun, 

Imperial crown of living light, 

May ride in splendor forth, 

The heavens mellow into warmth, 

On land and sea a radiance pours, 

The promise of the golden hour. 

The day is met. The psalm of life begun. 


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NIGHT 


O, mystery sweet of this soft blackness 
Close pressing, 

Enshrouding me in vapor, 

Stilling brain and pulse 
And swinging soul to heights of peace un¬ 
told, 

The surging forces of the earth beat at my 
feet 

And yield a thousand balms, 

Hushing to calm the fever of the day. 
Drink of this fountain deep, 

Restore thy soul, breathe in 
The brooding silence of the hour. 

Renew thy vow’s of love 

To Him, who pours with gracious hand 

The healing of His solitude. 


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THE SINGER AT THE WINDOW 


By the wild olive tree, 

From under its branches, Love looked up 
at me. 

Sweet, O sweet, his smile to see, 

His eyes like sapphires shining. 

“Come, honey, come, 

Come, follow me. 

Safe I lead through thicket and brier 
For a charm in my heart I carry.” 

Then his voice I lost 

As against the casement I leaned. 

Sweet, Sweet, come no more to me; 

I no longer wait by the wild olive tree. 
You have left me to love, 

You have left me to die. 

Oh, the wild olive tree! 

From under its branches Love looked up 
at me. 


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By the wild olive tree, 

From under its branches, Death looked up 
at me. 

Sweet and wan his smile to see, 

His eyes like lamps a-burning. 

“Come, honey, come, 

Come, follow me,” 

He whispered low, as the wind that sighs 
In the pine tree bough; 

Pale the glance from under his shadowed 
brow; 

Then his voice I lost 

As against the casement I leaned. 

Sweet, Sweet, come no more to me, 

I no longer wait by the wild olive tree. 
You have left me to love, 

You have left me to die. 

Oh, the wild olive tree! 

From under its branches Death looked 
up at me. 


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MY GARDEN 

Give me a garden, well enclosed 
With high brick wall and spikes above, 
Where none may enter save for love 
And not so oft, at that. 

There let me wander at my will 
Down garden path at evening hour 
Or in the early dawn. Mine, all mine 
This garden fair, all mine. 

The lilac shakes against my face 
Dew from the wells of paradise, 

While jonquil stares at daffodil 
And lark and robin sing. 

Sweetbrier, clover, mignonette 
And roses waiting to be met. 
Forget-me-not and meadow sweet 
All in a riot at my feet, 

While foxglove, larkspur, columbine, 
Snapdragon, heliotrope and vine, 
Carnation sweet and Southern wood, 
Clematis, jasmine flower and stock, 

With peonies and hollyhock, 

All make their morning sacrifice 
And greet me as I pass. 

Laburnum, snowball, burning bush 
And white syringa, joy of youth, 

In homely ways brought up, while from afar 
The myrtle mats and scans with dovelike 
eyes 

The flowering almond at her side. 


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From corner dark there comes to me 
The vision of the tulip tree, 

And crouching low beside the wall 
The white spirea pickets, tall, 

While filtering through the dewy air 
The honeysuckle’s odor rare, 

And lilies in this nature’s urn 
Their added fragrance burn. 

’Tis then, when moonlight through the 
trees 

Falls softly shining on the leaves, 

And silence reigns supreme, 

In that sweet hush my soul stands still 
Before my Maker and my King, 

The God of all my love. 


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SOULS 

There are careless souls, 

There are cruel souls, 

There are cold, revengeful, brutal souls; 
But there are merciful souls, 

And this is best, 

For the soul that loves 
Is the soul that saves. 

There are timid souls, 

There are halting souls, 

There are foolish,-regretful, pining souls; 
But there are trustful souls, 

And this is best, 

For the soul that trusts 
Is the soul that rests. 



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DEC 5 1911 










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REDFIELD BROTHERS, INC 
NEW YORK 


One cojjj del. to Cat^Div. 
































